The Best Of
by Scarletspeedster
Summary: Scenes from the individual perspectives of Eli and Clare. Might get a little steamy later. Not a songfic, but inspired, sometimes, by Billy Joel. I can't stand how much I love them.
1. Only The Good Die Young

This is me writing because I have to. I don't know what to do anymore and I don't know how to do it. So I'm doing this. I'm going to keep doing vignettes until I stop. First, Eli.

**1: Only The Good Die Young**

I'm really into Clare. Not the way I'm really into strawberry shortcake—fucking delicious, by the way-but the way I'm really into watching Meg White play the drums: fucking mindblowingly change-your-life hot. That said, Clare isn't hot. She's pretty, certainly, and I like how when she smiles, it's all sweet and slow and it hits her eyes first before her lips even move. I like the way her hair kind of tornados everywhere—wild, yet still somehow on the straight and narrow, knowing where it should go, just like the rest of her. She's cute, yeah, but for Clare, a cardigan isn't an accessory, it's a way of life, and I don't think she'd know Meg White from Lady Gaga unless one of the two of them started pumping out anthems to Jesus. Not my typical girl.

But something about Clare drives me crazy. Hell, I think I'm going insane, because lately, _everything_ about Clare drives me crazy.

"You are so gone." Adam likes to point out the obvious. I haven't stopped staring at Clare since she announced her plan to ditch us for yearbook and turned heel back down the hallway. She's wearing one of those pretty little church-girl dresses that stops a few inches shorter than complete modesty, but hangs just long enough to make a guy think.

"I am so fucking gone." I agree, catching Adam in a headlock. "Let's grab lunch."

Clare shows up as I'm halfway through a chocolate pudding cup. Almost too sweet. She's got her arms full of schoolwork and a face flush of the satisfaction of work well organized. Oh, but I were a yearbook.

"Pudding cup, Eli?" When she smirks at me, it's a little shy, like that lopsided smile's just a little too dirty for Saint Clare. It just makes it worse, but I've got my game face on.

"It's good for me." I tap the label ("Now with a full serving of dairy!") on the peeled-back lid with my pinky. "I'm a growing boy." I've got a really great game face. I know she's bought it because instead of fleeing to the nearest church to pray for my perverted little soul, she dips her finger around the edge of my pudding cup and traces the rim, scooping some pudding and indulging herself. She still manages to look shy sucking pudding off her finger.

Be-still my beating black heart.

Adam mouths 'gone' from across the table at me, but I don't bother to respond. We both know I'll be bringing pudding to school every day for the foreseeable future.

"You guys are going to grow out instead of up if you keep eating like that...a sandwich and some fruit too mainstream for you?" Clare scours through the feast that Adam and I have built between us on the table.

"If you're looking for a PB&J with the crusts cut off, you need to get yourself a new pair of guys, Clare. This is man food." Adam jabs a corn chip at Clare and she just smiles and rolls her eyes.

"Enjoy your metabolism while it lasts, I guess."

She sits down next to me. I like the way she sits, all snug and neat. It's like a science. First, she shakes out her dress a little. Then she smoothes it down, so when she sits down, it won't wrinkle. I never knew I'd find tidy so attractive. She reaches for the pudding cup again. Clare has a serious sweet tooth. I'm more than happy to indulge, but I wouldn't be me if I dropped to my knees and fed her like Cleopatra. Nope, not my style.

No matter how much I want to.

I slide the cup away from her, without looking. I don't have to be looking at her to recognize the slight intake of breath as shock-turned-pout. I want to look, but I've committed, and I'm damn stubborn when I commit to something. I wait another beat before glancing over.

"Something wrong, Clare?" Her mouth opens and closes a bit like a fish, then she shuts it firmly. "Don't be shy."

"Nothing." She mutters, shaking her head a little. Her hand flutters before settling in her lap. She wants to say something, but she can't. Clare Edwards, I can read you like a Fortnight novel.

Adam strikes up a conversation on the merits—or lack thereof—of having Aquaman in the Justice League. I think he really wants to agree with me that ocean based superheroes are useless, but he's got that old-school loyalty going on. Gotta respect that, but he's fucking blind. In between sea animal calls and hand-hooks, I slide the pudding cup over to Clare, catching her eyes briefly out of the corner of mine. I'm rewarded with one of those slow smiles that start from the eyes. Her cherry-red lips quirk up at the edges as I wordlessly pass her my spoon. She digs in and swirls at the pudding for a moment, and her tongue darts out to moisten her lips. Even though her eyelids are lowered, and she looks like she's focusing on the pudding, I can tell she's still watching me.

Bless me Clare, for I am about to sin.

I gotta learn to multitask, because Adam clears his throat and jerks us both out of our moment. I hadn't noticed how close my head was to hers, or how shallow her breathing was.

"Guys, really? I'm eating here. Do you want me to blow chunks?"

Clare flushes, clamming up with a mouthful of pudding and I just shrug and straighten up.

"If you have to, aim for Owen, alright?" An elbow jabs my ribs. Moment broken, I guess. Damn it. Me and my fucking mouth.

Adam leaves for football practice after lunch. Good on him, and good for me. I could write an essay full of better uses of my time than chasing dead pig flesh with a bunch of guys in skin-tight pants. For example, pinning Clare up against the lockers with my mouth is a fantastic use of my time. Even better is listening to those throaty little sighs when she wraps her arms around my neck and gets exactly what she wants but can't bring herself to ask for. I'm more than willing to oblige and play the devil. What can I say? It suits me.

Kissing Clare is a little like saying a prayer. Appropriate, I guess. She's a quiet kisser, and when you're both deep into it, she makes you quiet too. It's all whispers and murmurs and sighs between our lips and whispery light in between when we dive deep. I feel like saying a few Hail Marys afterward, and I'm pretty fucking far from religious.

I start to press forward, to chase my lucid dream, when she pulls away. Not so much in physical space, but I can feel her gather herself back in and get all tidy again. I take a step back to watch her brain kick back into gear, and I know that we're done. She touches her fingertips to her lip, and when someone less observant might think she's stuck on me and my terrifically talented tongue, I can see that she's worrying her promise ring with her thumb, spinning it around her finger like a safety blanket.

I'm a gentleman. I know how to treat a lady, and I'd never push.

But goddamn, sometimes I hate that little gold cockblock.

I don't hate it because of what it stands for. I think it's cool that she's willing to stand up for what she believes in. Maybe it's hard out there for a pimp, but I bet it's harder for a high school virgin. What I hate is how it restrains her. The mere thought of it makes her pull back—pull in. Not just from sex, but from life. She's stunning when she just lets go—damn the consequences.

But in the meantime, I'll enjoy her as she is. I'm trying to get better at letting things go myself. Living in the moment, being glad for what I've got.

So, Clare, if you're the preacher's daughter, I'll play the rebel out-of-towner with the devil-may-care attitude, and we'll be perfect as we are.


	2. Honesty

Clare wishes it wasn't so easy to be herself.

Thanks for the kind words, reviewers. I didn't go into this looking for reviews, more of a release, but I'm grateful to those who took the time, and foolishly pleased that you like my shit.

**2: Honesty**

I don't think he understands that the person I can't trust the most when we're together is me.

He's the boy my mother warned me about. Kind, thoughtful, patient. My mother's smart—she knows that I'm not the type of girl to fall for empty promises and careless compliments. One morning before school, she sat across from me at the dining room table and covered my hand with hers.

″Clare,″ she said. ″Someday, you're going to meet a boy that's perfect for you. He'll be kind and thoughtful. He won't be like the other boys. He'll open doors for you, and he'll mean what he says, and when he says he's willing to wait, you'll know he's telling you the truth. And that's why that boy's the one I'm warning you about.″

I didn't understand what she meant until now. Eli wastes words, but he doesn't waste promises, and he's never had to tell me he's willing to wait. It's just how it is. We both know it.

But around Eli, I don't want to wait. Around Eli, it seems foolish to save myself for the perfect moment when sometimes I feel like there's no such thing and I'm racing to keep up so this amazing...whatever that we're simmering in doesn't slip away. That's trouble because I made a promise I intend to keep.

″Is everyone I know a zombie?″ Adam snarks at me, as we loiter next to our lockers, shoving his hands in his pockets. He won't hit a girl, but sometimes I think he wants to smack something when his two best friends are staring at each other from across the hallway. Unfortunately, Eli's leaving for French class, rendering Adam's normal punching bag unavailable.

″Sorry, I was paying attention, I swear. Football, something something...sorry. I guess I wasn't.″ I really wasn't. I love a guy in jeans, and Eli makes the little fetish I'd always considered pretty wholesome into something a little dirtier.

″You were watching Eli's ass.″ Adam rolls his eyes.

″Yes. I was...watching Eli's...I swear, if you breathe a word of that to anyone, Adam Torres, they'll...well, they'll be feeding you out of a tube.″ I'm learning. Sometimes you have to be like the boys to hang with the boys. When in Rome.

″Girl power.″ Adam solemnly raises his fist high, earning a well deserved smack on the shoulder. ″Hey! Admit it, Clare. We've spoiled you. Soiled your good name. I dub thee...the Dirty Virgin Princess.″

All I can manage is a strangled sound in my throat as I bury my face in my hands. God help me. Fucking boys. Or, I guess, not fucking boys. Dammit!

″Dammit! Dammit, Adam!″ I peek at him through my fingers, and he's sporting a look of the most unholy glee. I have to hit him again.

″What? It's good! You're so much better this way. I promise. Even if it means you and Eli suck face a lot more. I mean, you're still you and all, just...more chill.″ He shrugs.

That's one thing I really enjoy about Adam. He's so earnest. Take him as he is, or don't bother. It's a frame of mind I understand all too well. I've been 40 since I was nine. Although lately I'm starting to feel sixteen.

For example, it feels incredibly sixteen to be in the front seat of Eli's hearse after school. Dead Hand is playing and I'm half pinned between the back of the seat and Eli's warm body. The front seat's a little too small for the mess of limbs we're getting ourselves into, and I like it that way. He usually gives me a choice to move to the converted back, but I always say no. I don't trust myself without the constant reminder of an awkward elbow or my leg hitting the gearshift. He never pushes. He doesn't have to when who he is is far more seductive than anything he could try and say to persuade me.

His lips are on my neck, brushing feather-light so you could barely call it kissing. I'm just a little dizzy and it seems handy to grip his shoulders so I don't get swept along. I try to let go and forget what my mother'd say for a moment, but then he runs his tongue along the shell of my ear and I shudder and want him too much and try to remember again instead: church potluck, Hebrews 13:4, the disappointed face of Jesus in that stained glass window on the front of our church. Jesus works a miracle again, but for once I'm less than thrilled. It's so easy to stiffen up again even though I don't mean to make things awkward.

″I lost you, didn't I?″ He murmurs, pulling back and brushing a stray hair out of my face. I can't quite meet his eyes. I'm not sure if it's because I feel guilty or because I don't. Maybe both.

″I'm okay.″ I'm fidgeting with my promise ring again. Lately, it seems to be a preoccupation. I want Eli to take it off with his teeth. I want to glue it stuck for good.

″Hey, you know you don't have to worry, right? You know I wouldn't.″ I know he wouldn't.

″What if I told you I wanted to move to the back?″ We both know what I'm really referring to.

He stares at me for a moment, his make-out hair a blatant reminder of what we've just been doing.

″Is this a hypothetical future statement, or are you asking what I'd do if you told me that right now?″ I knew he wouldn't take me up on it, but I thought he'd brush it off with a clever quip. He's serious. He's got his game face on. I don't know what he's thinking.

″I want to move to the back, Eli.″ I don't know whose buttons I'm pushing, mine or his.

″I'm taking you home.″ He separates himself from me, and buckles his seatbelt. I guess it's both. I feel horrible because I don't know what else to feel.

When we get to my house, he gets out and opens the car door for me. He doesn't usually, but before I can roll that around in my head and psychoanalyze it to death, he boxes me in against the side of the hearse and kisses me, hard. I can feel his frustration in the restlessness of his shoulders, a mix of worry, irritation, and the non-fulfillment of our broken make-out session. He can't stop shifting his feet and I get a little weak in the knees.

″You get one freebie, Edwards.″ He mutters, leaning his head against mine. ″Don't toy around with me next time. I'm a fragile flower.″

I can't help the snort that bubbles out of me. I close the distance once more and kiss him lightly before leaving him.

Maybe it sucks, just a little, that I can trust him completely.


End file.
